if mr gorbachev doesn't tear down this wall, i will
by waterandwin
Summary: Late 20th century AU. Death. For the life of me I was the death of him, and as long as I live I won't ever forgive myself for it.


The year was 1979 when the supermarket cashier with the dark, dark eyes from the grocery store on the corner returned my smile and I thought I recognized him.

He said, "Yeah, I think we went to the same high school. St Joseph's, class of '76, right?"

I had a bit of a reputation in high school; most people knew me but I didn't know most people. I expected him to identify I as the fag but he didn't. I don't think we've ever spoken before but I'm was on the rebound— had been for like a year and a half at that point— so I slipped him my number on a whim. I didn't think much of it when I didn't hear back for two or three days after that. He'd probably tossed it in the trash or something. I couldn't blame him. Much to my amazement, however, I got a call at half past eleven that Friday. He sounded so nervous I swear I could hear the sweat squelch between his fingers as he wrung his hands on the other end of the line.

"I didn't expect you to pick up," he blurted.

"Then why did you call?" I asked. He said nothing. I thought he might have hung up. "You still there?"

"Yeah."

"How about drinks tomorrow night?" I asked. "I know a place."

It sounded like he might have dropped the phone, but a second later he was back again. "Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good. Great! That sounds great."

I laughed and gave him the address. He asked me to wait so he can write it down and I knew right away this is going to be his first time with a man. I don't usually go for that sort of thing but I wasn't in the best place back then mentally so I figured I would take what I could get.

"What's your name, by the way?" I asked before I hung up.

"Bertholdt," he said.

"That's a good name, Bertholdt," I said. "I'm Reiner."

* * *

I knew as soon as he walked in the door that I wasn't going to be getting any that night because a man looking to get laid wouldn't think to dress like Mr. Rogers, but after a few drinks I started to find it strangely endearing. He was sweet, really. A little shy but I have a weakness for guys taller than me. I was surprised when neither of us ran out of things to talk about. We had a similar taste in music and no big plans for life, and we've both always wanted a dog but never had one.

He was a good listener, though I could tell that the atmosphere made him a bit uncomfortable. He nodded when I asked him if he's new to the scene and nodded again when I asked if he'd like to go for a walk instead, and that's how the two of us ended up wandering aimlessly for a few hours around Manhattan discussing, well, I don't really remember. It was nice. He was nice. It was a new experience for me, but honestly I've never been one to turn away from putting someone under my wing so it wasn't even a matter to be decided.

At the end of the night I walked him home and all I did was kiss him like I was in middle school again bringing my date back to her parents from the school dance. I could tell he was nervous but I've had worse. Maybe it's just the booze sloshing around in my gut but I thought maybe I'd be willing to take it slow with this one. It had been a long, long time since I did that, but I did it for him.

Maybe I ought to regret it for his sake. God knows sometimes I do, but I'll be burning in hell soon enough so I might as well admit he was the best damn thing to ever happen to me. He was. He really, really was.

* * *

So yeah, we took it slow. Real slow. I taught him everything but I let him set the pace. It wasn't until 1980 that I finally took him into bed with me. New Years Eve, to be exact. No one knew back then if the world was gonna live to see another year or if the Reds were gonna nuke us off the planet, but hell, if you had been there to see us you would have thought the world was ending when the sun came up. I'd never seen that side of him before but the truth was we were scared. We were both so scared but I wanted him to forget, just for the night. So I fucked him and I held him and for a few hours the world was just two bodies under a thin sheet and everything smelled of sweat and musk and sex and we were happy.

I won't ever forget that night as long as I live because that was the night I killed him. I dug his grave and I scratched out the tombstone and I hammered it into the ground and I might as well have paved the way for him with rose petals because on that night... on that night I signed his death sentence with a flourish. Fuck me. Fuck me. He was the best thing to ever happen to me and I was the worst thing to ever happen to him and I will never, ever, forgive myself that.

* * *

Neither of us knew until 1981.

We had moved in together by then. He brought this... this address book with him. Little black thing that he kept in the drawer beside his side of the bed and never opened. There were only a couple of numbers in there, all family I think. They never called and to my knowledge he never called them. We didn't talk about it. We didn't talk about a lot of things.

We barely talked about the results when they came in. I remember it was late because I had waited for him to get home from work to open the envelopes. We sat down across from each other at the kitchen table and opened them at the same time. We both knew they were going to say the same thing, but we each opened our own anyway.

My hands were shaking so bad. He got his open first so I saw the answer on his face before I saw it on my page. It just... it didn't feel real. I thought I might be dreaming; I ran my fingers over the test results like I might just wipe the ink and it would be gone.

By the time I looked up he had his head in his hands, and the next thing I knew—before I even had the time to decide if I still had the right to even touch him— I was holding his head to my chest like if I held on tight enough the virus in his veins would all return to me and he would be better again. I wanted to cry for him but I couldn't. I would later, I promised myself, when he couldn't see, but back there in the spotlight of the kitchen lamp I let him ball his fists into the back of my shirt and let it all out. I expected him to sob or scream, but he didn't make a sound and somehow that was worse.

"I'd understand if you wanted to leave me," I said, real quiet. I knew it would be for the best but I was a selfish piece of shit— I still am— and the last thing I wanted was to be alone. I'd known for a long time that God hated me. I'd given up asking him for any favors, but back in that kitchen I did. I said 'please, please, don't let me be alone.' And God just fucking laughed.

"I need a shower," was all Bertholdt said. He left without so much as looking at me and I didn't follow. I paced and lay in bed and paced some more until he was finished, and then I went in and I scrubbed myself with hellfire—like I could scald the sickness out of me, like I could burn away my sins— but I felt no cleaner when the hot water ran out and I was red as a lobster. And all I could think about— all I could fuckingthink about— was myself. How I didn't want to die. How I didn't want to be alone. How all the guilt was on me, me, me. I don't know what could have possibly seen in me.

He was still awake when I got into bed. I knew because when he rolled over and pulled the sheet over our heads I could see he had been crying. He didn't say anything though, just watched me. He hadn't gotten dressed since he'd gotten out of the shower and neither had I. He studied my face like he'd never seen it before and I don't know why but I held my breath. I'll admit I flinched when he went and swept his thumb along by cheekbone to my ear. I don't think I've ever felt a touch more intimate before or since. There wasn't even anything particular about it, but somehow it made me want to cry. I tried not to and I tried to hide my face but he didn't let me. He even had the gall to kiss the tears from where they pooled on my nose and across my other cheek. He kept kissing until he got to my neck but I stopped him before he could go any lower. I knew he wanted to and my own body was betraying me saying I wanted it too, but I couldn't let him.

He used his hand instead. Ran it along my body like I was still clean enough to touch, like I was still something to be desired, and because I am a horrible, disgusting, corrupted man, I touched back. It was dark but the curtain was flung open and the streetlight was spilling in through the window and I was able to pull away and watch his eyes dilate as he got close. As always, I made sure he got his first. It was for the better, because when the glow faded the guilt rushed back like a tidal wave. I couldn't breathe and I thought my heart might explode and if neither of those killed me then surely the black hole in my stomach would swallow me whole, but somehow when I opened my eyes again he was still there in my arms.

He reached up quietly with one sticky hand and studied the cum, his and mine mixed together, with calm contemplation. I still remember what he said to me then, his exact words. He said, "we're bioweapons now."

I wasn't sure how to respond so I only nodded. And then he did something I didn't expect, and that was to reach up and smear his fingers across my mouth. Again I said nothing.

"Now we're even," he said for me.

For some reason, for some fucked up reason, that was the funniest thing I heard all day. He looked taken aback for a moment and then he laughed too, and then we were both laughing and I don't have a clue why. I licked my lips and held the taste on my tongue and when he kissed me he didn't hesitate for a moment to take the saltiness back from me, and at that moment I knew. He never said it. I never said it. I probably should have, at least once before it was too late, but in that moment neither of us had to because the gesture was enough. He loved me. And I would shout it from the rooftops if I could that I loved him, too.

* * *

He got a pamphlet from the doctor for a support group forming in the area for people like us and we went, he and I. I didn't expect much of it but once I was there I realized what a relief it was to know we weren't alone.

It was there that we met all our friends. There was Ymir, a transwoman who would always tell you what she thought of you no matter how rude, and who was so, so proud to proclaim that she still managed to keep her girlfriend clean. There was also Annie. She didn't show up often and when she did she barely spoke. Apparently she had gone to school with Bertholdt and I, but my memory of those years was absolutely shot. One day, in '84 she brought a new guy with her. He shook like a junky and snapped at everyone and I figured he wouldn't be back but he was, and after that Annie became a regular, too. His name was Eren and he got the worm from a needle, as I'd guessed. He swore Annie was helping to teach him how to control himself and fight the urges, but for a while I had my doubts we were both talking about the same Annie Leonhardt. She turned out to be alright in the end, though. Everyone did, in their own way.

In any case, one way or another, we lived. We lived when the whole world seemed to be telling us to die. Looking back now, those were the happiest years of my life. Sure neither Bertholdt nor I could hold a job for very long, but we got by. We would make each other dinner and talk late into the night. The world was nuclear and we could die any day, but we were alive. We were together. We were as close to happiness as I can imagine.

I still remember in 1987 when our little group was gathered around the TV at Eren and his sister's place. It was sometime in June and the air was just starting to cool with the evening. All of us were packed in to watch the president tell Mr. Gorbachev to "tear down this wall!"

"You think he'll actually do it?" Ymir's girlfriend asked. Her name is Historia. She looks like a porcelain doll and if I were straight I would be so jealous.

"If he doesn't, I will," Bertholdt said.

Everyone looked at him. It wasn't like him to say much.

"Why?" Eren asked.

Bertholdt just shrugged. "I got family in East Berlin. My grandfather. I never met him but I was named after him so it would be nice to get the chance. I don't even know if he's still alive."

Everyone went quiet and I broke the silence by clapping him on the back. "You're gonna meet your grandfather, I promise you that." I told him. "Even if I have to tear down the wall with my own two hands."

He kinda chuckled like it was joke he didn't find all that funny and the conversation moved on, but I didn't.

* * *

We never got that dog we both wanted, and Bertholdt never got to meet you.

It was March, I think. March of '89. He caught a cold. Just a cold. Just a sniffle and a cough that got worse and worse and worse until I found blood in his tissue that he had been hiding from me.

It was July when he couldn't work anymore. I took extra shifts, which only meant I could spend less time with him. I saved all our money. I tried. By God, I tried. I gave it everything I had, at least I think I did. Sometimes I wonder if there was more I could have done. There had to be, because if it wasn't my failure whose was it?

* * *

August 5th. August 5th, 1989. He was thirty years old. He had brown hair and the deepest brown eyes I have ever seen. He liked folk punk and pineapples of his pizza and falling asleep to the sound of rain. He hated the texture of walnuts but not the taste, and he always complained when I cracked my knuckles around him. He made the best omelets in the world. He was a terrible dancer. Once I made him laugh so hard he got the hiccups. He was a good man. He really was. I wish you could have met him.

* * *

I found him when I came home from work. He was lying on the kitchen floor, almost like he was sleeping. I don't think I've ever been so scared in my life. I've looked into the face of death in the shape of a fist before, I have, but I had never been so scared as I was in that moment. I still stay awake sometimes wondering if maybe it was just myself I was scared for. I don't think I'll ever know, but every once in a while I'll close my eyes and his form will be there on the inside of my eyelids.

He was warm still when I carried him to the bed. So warm. So very, very warm. And then he was cold, and for the longest time I didn't know what to do.

I didn't cry when we finally put him in the ground. It was so strange. I couldn't bring myself to cry at all. I went home and I put a TV dinner in the microwave and I lay down on the couch and when the microwave sounded I didn't get up to answer it. And I didn't cry.

I spent a lot of nights on the couch after that. A lot of days, too. The bed was too empty and too cold. I missed work. I slept too much and not enough. I took up smoking again. After the funeral I never went back to the support group again. Pretty soon I wasn't going out much at all. I spent what money I had on instant noodles and cigarettes and kept putting off the rent.

I just... I couldn't understand it. How could living trash like me be allowed to continue to exist when someone like him— someone kind and caring and timid and wonderful— just... wasn't anymore. What was the point of it all? Maybe the Russians really did drop the bomb while New York was sleeping and this was just what hell was like. Was that better than the alternative? Was there a difference? I still had to work to eat and eat to live, but what did I have to live for? I asked myself that a lot. I asked myself a lot of things. I had all these questions and none of the answers. I didn't remember how to live for myself anymore, and even if I did I don't think I deserved it.

Then November 9th came around. Down went the wall. Three more months and he could have been around to see it. Would have seen it, if I hadn't killed him first. It was then and there that I finally went to the bathroom and took out the bottle of pain pills. I picked out one for my stomach and two for my eyes, three for my head and four for my heart, and ten for the years we spent together. I held them in my hand. Twenty capsules. Twenty years since I first realized I wanted to kiss Berik Jung in the sixth grade and twenty years of the little Catholic boy my mother wanted me to be recoiling in disgust. I was a freak. I was a disease-ridden freak and I was a monster and more than anything... more than anything I was a coward.

I plunged my fingers down my throat until the pills came back up and I flushed the whole bottle down the toilet with them. I don't know why. There was just this moment after I had swallowed the first seven or eight that I realized... something. I don't know what I realized. Maybe he came back just to tell me it wasn't my time yet. I don't know.

I just don't know.

* * *

I remember waking up and the first thing I did was crawl over to his nightstand. I don't know what possessed me. His address book was still in there. Neither of us had touched it for almost ten years, or so I thought, but when I opened it all those pictures you're holding fell out. There's him with his parents at Yankee Stadium when he was a kid. There's his parents at their wedding. There's a picture of us at Christmas, 1985. And that one, that's you with his dad when he was little, isn't it?

Written on the back there, that's how I found your address. I had to make some phone calls to figure out if you were still living here. A lot of Bertholdt's family wouldn't talk to me. I understand why. They'd stopped talking to him ages ago, too. In the end, all I learned was that someone named Bertholdt Hoover still lived here, but it was enough. It was November 11th, 1989 and I had a reason to clean myself up again. It was hard, but I had a reason. I had a reason. I had one reason. So I got up.

All those months of not taking care of myself really did a number on my immune system though, as if it needed another kick to the balls. I wasn't sure how much time I had, so after trying to scrape together the money for a plane ticket for a couple of weeks I gave in and applied for a credit card. No one had to know I wasn't going to pay it back. I might have lied on some of the details, but it didn't matter because when it arrived in the mail the first thing I did was buy myself a one-way ticket here.

I found your house. You know the rest. I asked for your name but I didn't need to because you have his eyes, you know that? You have your grandson's eyes. I loved his eyes. I loved all of him, but I really loved his eyes. I'd recognize them anywhere. When I asked if you spoke English you almost closed the door on me until I showed you the pictures, and then you opened the door a little wider and asked me as best as you could to tell you. Tell you what? Well, I've told you all I know. I'm sorry you couldn't understand a word of it.

I'm so tired. How long have I been crying? Do you mind if I just close my eyes here. Just for a bit. Just a little while.

I won't sleep long, I promise.

Thank you.


End file.
